


Painted Summer

by ZoeBug



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Canadian!Marco, Carriage Driver!Jean, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mackinac Island, Native American Character(s), Native!Marco, Native!Ymir, Northern Michigan, Ojibwe Language, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rating May Change, Summer Love, Summer Vacation, Yooper!Jean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:37:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6895807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoeBug/pseuds/ZoeBug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story about a small island in the north of Michigan and the things that people find there. It’s a story about wonder and beauty and discovery, about serendipity and a feeling so elusive you can’t even give name to it as it slips out of grasp like water through splayed fingers.</p><p>This is the story of the summer of 1976 and of two boys who spent it together on the island that time forgot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This AU has been knocking around my head for so long. It's really special to me because Mackinac Island - PRONOUNCED "MACK-IH-NAW" - holds a really important place in my heart and the history of my family. Honestly, if you ever get a chance to visit, it's beautiful (you can also look up pictures and videos, I encourage it, Mackinac Island is an amazing place). 
> 
> Also, this is my chance to explore my Ojibwe heritage and have Native characters! Woo! I'm not a fluent speaker of Ojibwe so I apologize if some of the sentences aren't exactly constructed correctly. I'll put all the translations directly after the words in parenthesis since I, myself, find it pulls me out of the story when you need to scroll to the bottom for really necessary dialogue translations. *shrug*
> 
> I know this setting is kinda specialized but I really hope people who have never heard of the island can still appreciate the story. Please enjoy!

In the north of the United States, just east of the Mackinac Bridge that connects the upper and lower peninsulas of the great state of Michigan, there is a place people say that time forgot.

The sun arcs high overhead, setting the waters of the Mackinac Straits sparkling in its wake, the waters of Lake Michigan and Lake Huron stretching as far as the eye can see. Seagulls swoop above the heads of the passengers that disembark the ferries on the docks, cawing loudly in hopes of food, either given freely or abandoned.

The streets are full of visitors, milling about on the sidewalks of the small shops, or riding bikes in the streets alongside those riding in carriage pulled by towering draft horses that clatter up the pathways between buildings. The smell of freshly made fudge and the water and horses is everywhere on Main Street just off the port, a fudge shop squeezed in every few buildings down between bike rentals and souvenir stores and restaurants.

If you can manage to tear your eyes away from the burst of colors of the shops lining the street, from the flowers bursting from every available space and tilt your head upwards, you might see the slope of the island rising before you.

Perhaps you’ll see the large, stretching pane of Mission Park littered with afternoon nappers or picnickers stretched out on blankets enjoying the sun and gazing out beyond the boats to the lake sparkling in the midday sun. Or perhaps you’ll see the large houses splashed in pastel colors dotting the winding paths that circle their way further up toward the island’s summit, popping out from the rich green of the forests like flowers rising above tall grass. Or perhaps you’ll see the towering peaks of Fort Mackinac with its flags flapping in the wind off the Straits and hear the cannon shots of the re-enactment activities performed for visitors a few times a day.

Perhaps you might wander up the steep streets and see other things. Perhaps you’ll find yourself in the world’s 3rd oldest live butterfly exhibit at the Butterfly House, gazing around the large, humid room bursting with the colors of the flowers and hundreds of species of beautiful, entrancing butterflies. Perhaps you’ll find yourself along one of the boardwalks, feet clattering on the wooden slats before deciding to jump over the railing and run barefoot into the surf when you’ll remember you’re in Northern Michigan and there is more gravel than sand here.

Or perhaps you’ll find yourself gazing down at Arch Rock from the outlook, studying the precarious formation of a wide, circular window through which you can gaze outward toward the lapping waves of the lake meeting the shore far below.

Perhaps you’ll find yourself hiking through the thick forests further up the island along barely marked pathways and weather-worn wooden stairs where the island slants down- or upward too steeply to climb alone. Perhaps you’ll find yourself reveling in the carpet of moss and rust-colored pine needles along the forest floor beneath your every footstep, feeling hushed and humbled by nothing but the ancient trees and the forest humming with life around you.

But perhaps, if you are very, very lucky… you might discover something else on the island that time forgot. Between the bright flashes and brilliant colors of the island, hidden away tucked into alleys and heard whispered just beneath the din of afternoon Main Street, you might find it.

In the clopping of hooves on pavement and the high zips of bikes zooming by, in the the cawing of seagulls and the hushed, distant _shaaa_ of the waves reaching the shore. In the bursts of wildflowers reaching valiantly toward the sun just beyond eyesight off the road outside of town and in the distant green shapes of the minuscule uninhabited swells of land just a quick swim offshore.

In bars lit with low, yellow light after sundown and the way the bridge connecting two halves of a whole state over vast and stretching water is set alight after dark, shining so brightly across the infinite waters it can be seen for miles and miles.

In the the way the sunlight streams in through early morning windows and the doorways of brightly painted buildings beckon in you from the streets. In the laughter of someone you will hear only once, filling your shared space with the warmth of happiness for a bright moment, and never meet again.

In the serendipitous proximity of strangers that will soon cease to be so who exist at the right place on the right sidewalk at the right time of day in early summer when the sun is bright and the air unseasonably warm around you.

In the kind of summer that changes a person forever and in the way someone looks as they smile back at you that can make you nostalgic for something you’ve never had.

Because this story is about a small island in the north of Michigan and the things that people find there. It’s a story about wonder and beauty and discovery, about serendipity and a feeling so elusive you can’t even give name to it as it slips out of grasp like water through splayed fingers.

This is the story of the summer of 1976 and of two boys who spent it together on the island that time forgot.  



	2. Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But for some reason he’s got a feeling - something like fluttering in his stomach and heat against his palm and the beats of a small, fragile heart against his skin - that this summer is going to be something different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hhhh here it goes! Let me know if anything is kinda unclear. Like I said, I know this setting is kinda specialized and not one I think many people will be familiar with. I tried to integrate information into the story organically but still keep it moving. I tried hard to create the atmosphere that I remember from my times spent on the island for those of you who have never visited and I really hope it comes through.  
>   
> And, again, I'm not fluent in Ojibwe I spent so fucking long double checking my verb conjugations holy shit. It's been over a year since I last took an Ojibwe class so I'm super rusty... tho tbh I doubt many people who read this will be fluent ha :') Basically, don't assume any of the Ojibwe is 100% correct, but I guarantee it's in the ballpark!! :')
> 
> I hope you enjoy these iterations of my favorite SNK kids. They're really near and dear to my heart. Feedback is appreciated! :D

“Excuse me? Young man, excuse me?” Marco Bodt jerks his head up at the voice of the old woman leaning over his seat from the middle aisle. “We’re meant to be getting off the ferry now.”

Marco looks around at the rest of the passengers grabbing their bags and setting their sunglasses back down on their noses, jostling into the middle aisle to depart.

“Oh! Oh, yes, I’m sorry.” Marco apologizes, laughing and nodding at the old woman who smiles indulgently back at him. “I think I was daydreaming a bit. Thank you very much.” She's stout and white haired with dark, wrinkled skin covering a kind face.

“No worries, dear.” The woman replies as Marco slips into the slowly forward-shuffling line behind her. “Have you ever been to the Island, then?”

Marco shakes his head, slinging his backpack into his shoulders.

“No, it’s my first time.” He tells her truthfully.

The woman smiles like she’s about to watch someone unwrap a gift. The beads of her many necklaces jangle mutely as she shuffles forward a few steps.

“Ah, you’ll think you never woke up from your daydream.” Her voice is light as she teeters along, bony fingers grasping at the backs of seats for slight balance as they make their way toward the small set of stairs that will lead them up to the main level and out onto the docks. “You stayin' on the island by yourself?”

“Oh, ah, no.” Marco replies, pausing as they reach the steps. “Do you need any help?” He inquires.

She flashes another knowing grin back at him over her shoulder.

“You must be Canadian.” She muses, but before Marco has a chance to reply the woman is hauling herself up the steps with surprising dexterity. From the main deck of the ferry above, she turns to look back down at Marco who is still standing at the bottom step, looking up impressed. “I’m stronger than I look, young man.”

Marco can’t help but laugh, climbing up the steps after her. She seems to stick by him as they make their way over onto the wooden boards of the docks, and Marco picks up that further conversation would not be unwelcome.

“I’m actually staying with my aunt and cousin this summer. They run a souvenir shop downtown and I’m meant to help for a few months. Good experience, my mom says.” Marco says, closing his eyes slightly against the warm sunlight spilling onto his face and the cool breeze sweeping in off Lake Huron.

“Oh-ho, Mackinac natives, are they?” she asks.

“Not my aunt. But she’s lived here for…”  Marco pauses to think. “Well, at least nineteen years. Since before my cousin was born.”

“That’s good.” The woman replies, stopping to pluck a wheeled suitcase from the pile of luggage some men with logo emblazoned t-shirts have been unloading from the ferry. She turns to wink at him once she’s extended the handle so she can pull it along behind her. “If you only stick to the tourist areas you miss all the secrets.”

Marco blinks for a moment, then grins. The wooden boards of the docking area below their feet and the woman’s suitcase clatter and creak as they walk along. Dozens of seagulls caw loudly as they swoop above the crowd of people departing from a handful of other small ferry boats bringing them over from the mainland.

“Oh, I’m sorry, how rude of me. My name’s Marco.” Marco introduces. The woman clicks her tongue in what Marco takes to be an approving way.

“Definitely Canadian.” She murmurs to herself amused, before addressing him. “I'm Ilse. Nice to meet you, Marco.”

“Likewise. I’m- I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?” Marco asks, suddenly concerned. Isle laughs and Marco finds it endearing the way she snorts a little.

In the sunlight, as opposed to the relative shade of the ferry’s below decks, he notices the woman’s skin is darker, like his. He wonders what color her hair used to be before it faded into the bright grey-white shine she now has falling in shoulder length curtain around her face.

“No, Marco. You’re not keeping me. My philosophy is that often, meeting new people and doing new things is usually what you’re being kept _from_ when you go where you’re meant to.”

Marco looks out over the rough brown rope railings lining the dock, past the ferries and the jetty where seagulls are swooping in low arcs above the waves.

“Ms. Ilse, my mother would probably think you’re a bad influence.” Marco starts, looking back toward her in time to see her raise one silver eyebrow as if to say _oh really_? “But personally, I happen to think that you’re fantastic.”

Ilse laughs loudly and raises one arm to pat Marco’s shoulder with her thin hand where Marco notices a ring twisting its way around her middle finger. It’s made of four different colored bands of twine or sinew―black, white, red, and yellow―all interwoven.

Marco smiles, noting the long familiar colors of the Ojibwe medicine wheel, the combination of colors he's seen hundreds of times. In pictures hanging in his mother's house, in logos of newsletters, plastered around the many powwows he'd gone to back they'd lived in Ontario, the sight brings with it a surge of childhood nostalgia.

“Ms. Ilse?” Marco inquires slowly, his smile only widening but his heart fluttering in his chest before continuing in hesitant, slow syllables. " _Mnagiizhgat nangwaa, na? ( _I_ t’s a nice day today, isn’t it?)_” 

Isle pauses, her suitcase nearly colliding with the heel of her shoe beneath the long swishing hem of her skirt. She turns to look at Marco inquiringly. There's a moment where she considers him, saying nothing, before licking her lips and replying.

“ _Ikidon miinawaa_ , _daga._  ( _Say it again, please._ )” Isle says slowly but the sounds are natural upon her lips. “ _Aaniin ezhiwebak agwajiing? ( _What is the weather like?_ )_”

Marco breaks into a wide grin, although his mind kicks into overdrive to try and pick apart the pieces of words he hears. He extracts his hand from the straps of his backpack to wipe the moisture gathering there on his jeans.

“ _Mnagiizhgat nangwaa._  ( _It’s a nice day today._ )” Marco repeats and Ilse turns away, a satisfied, pleased curve to her lips, her head tilted up a bit as she continues walking. Marco follows.

“It certainly is.” She replies in English. “I thought I saw some _A_ _nishinaabek_ in you. The hair and the cheekbones, I think.”

“I’m not fluent.” Marco admits, one hand leaving its place gripping the straps of his backpack to rub the back of his neck sheepishly. “My aunt’s the one who’s kept up the language in our family. But I noticed your ring. Thought I’d give it a shot.”

“I’m glad you did.” Ilse hums, looking somehow more content than before.

The sun is bright upon the two as they continue walking down the docks towards where it lets out onto bustling Main Street. The smells of chocolate and popcorn and roasting nuts and all manner of other food smells Marco can’t disentangle well enough to name reach him from further on.

In the distance, nearly blocked by the curving edge of the island, Marco can see the two high spires and swooping wires of the Mackinac Bridge looking almost as if it's floating huge and beautiful, sparkling in the afternoon sun above the surface of the straits where Lake Michigan and Lake Huron meet.

“Do you have a bike?” Isle asks suddenly, breaking Marco’s reverie once again.

“Uhm, no.” He replies, but quickly adds at her look. “I was planning to borrow one of my cousin's this summer.” Isle nods approvingly at his explanation.

“Good. Cause you’ll not get far on this island without a bike. It’s a small place but big enough to make walking a pain. And carriages are more for the tourists, don’t really go anywhere useful. Not to mention expensive.”

Marco nods.

“It’s going to take a bit to get used to the who “No Cars” thing.” He admits, having to side step to avoid two children barreling past them, chasing after one another.

“It’s easier than you think.” Ilse replies, changing her suitcase handle to her other hand, before adding softly. “Most change is.”

They reach the end of the docks and Marco finds himself regretting that he’ll soon have to part ways with Ilse.

“I never asked if you were visiting alone here, Ms. Ilse.” Marco says, watching a pair of couples walking down the docks, hand in hand, pointing up at the buildings further up the rising crest of the island and visible from the shore. Ilse doesn’t respond to him.

After a moment as they reach the line of buildings that mark the edge of the docks and Marco can see through the few hollow, paved pathways in the brickwork, Main Street buzzing with activity beyond them.

“Well, it seems as if this is where we say _giga-waabamin naagaj_ ( _see you later_ ), Marco.”

Marco nods, extending his hand toward the woman as two cyclists speed past, their wheels making a high zipping sound as they hit the concrete path.

“ _Miigwech gii- ( _Thank you-__ )” Marco breaks off, looking upward, trying to remember the phrase. “ _Gii-ji,_ no, _gii-binbwaachiweyin._  (- _for visiting with me._ )” He finishes and looks sheepishly over at Ilse.

“ _Gegii._  ( _You also._ )” She replies, shaking his hand. Her palm is surprisingly cool against his skin. “It’s been awhile since I’ve gotten to speak _A_ _nishinaabemowin_ ( _t_ _he Ojibwe language_ ) with someone. Thank you for that.”

“Was good practice.” Marco nods.

“I hope you have a good time this summer, Marco. Remember not to let things keep you from keeping you.” She winks.

Marco gives Ilse a nod.

“Will do.”

Ilse departs out onto Main Street and is quickly swallowed from Marco’s sight by the crowds of tourists filling the sidewalks.

Marco takes a moment just to lean against the rough rope railing on the last part of the docks and look out over the water again, taking in the beautiful weather and view of the Straits. He watches the seagulls swoop and dive over the harbor and listens to the chattering of the crowds of tourists mulling around near the ferries collecting their luggage and the ringing of bike bells on the street beyond.

It’s breathtaking already and he’s not even properly _on_ the island yet.

Standing like this, with the mainland eclipsed by the Lakes’ horizon and only other tiny uninhabited islands and boats dotting the surface of the water, Marco could almost pretend that the rest of the world was nothing but this water before him. He could almost imagine, with the swell of the island rising behind him dotted with clusters of pastel houses like colored mushrooms, that the land had been painstakingly raised from the lake bed simply in order for him to stand here in the sun in this moment and breathe.

Finally Marco decides it’s time he start making his way towards his aunt’s house, so he slings his backpack off one shoulder to fish for the small envelope in one of the pockets. The air is warm for May so Marco can feel the small damp patch of sweat where the pack had been pressed against his back for so long.

He finally locates and unfolds the letter, pressing back against the rope railing of the dock so families and small children darting by can pass easily.

The crease in the center of the paper is deep from repeated unfolding and refolding on his trip to Mackinaw City earlier today, as Marco was determined to find his way to his aunt’s house without help.

He’s eighteen years old, Aunt Liz, he thinks he can navigate an island as small as this without help, thank you very much.

Marco’s eyes scan over the address and the wobbly map his aunt had drawn onto the paper before glancing up toward where he can catch glimpses of Main Street beyond the buildings.

He can smell chocolate and popcorn again, wafting out to him, as well as that distinct smell of being near to a large body of water. He breathes it in deeply while shoving the paper and map into his jean pocket.

It doesn’t smell like the ocean, like he might have thought - because it’s not, despite what some people might think looking out onto Lake Huron like this. It stretches out as far as Marco can see from the southern edge of the island, swallowing any sight of the mainland he knows is there beyond the horizon.

Marco smiles softly to himself, gathering his determination and hiking his backpack further up on his shoulders, gazing one more time out at the lake stretching out beyond him for what looks like forever.

“All right, Aunt Liz, I’m going already.” He huffs to himself, almost hearing her voice urging him to stop dawdling, before turning on his heel and striding towards the clamber of Main Street.

As he turns, however, a creased scrap of white paper is tugged loose from his back pocket and flutters to the ground, unbeknownst to its owner.

He keeps walking, stride determined, away from the docks as a gust of wind whistles across the wooden boards. It plucks the paper up into its twirling grasp and hurls it high, high into the air and up over the stretching waters of the lake, as blue as the orb of the Earth as seen in pictures from space.

Soon the paper is lost in the swooping of seagulls the same color of white and the sparkling shine of the sun on the waves of Lake Huron and blown―twisting and twirling and fluttering―far away from the brown-haired boy who continues to stride onward, unaware.

 

 

 

 

“Good work today, girl.” Jean Kirschtein leans forward with a broad grin in the driver’s seat of the carriage to pat what he can reach of the horse - Genevieve - on his right. The horse on his left gives a snuffle, shaking his mane as if to say _what about me_? after hearing Genevieve's name and not his own.

“You too, Buchwald. We’re nearly done for the day.” He adds to the horse on the left, huffing a little laugh at his horse’s jealousy before clicking his tongue at them.

The carriage rattles beneath him as they make their way down the paved street, quiet and empty now that he’s dropped off what should be his last load of passengers for the day. The overhang of the carriage above the driver’s seat does a little to help block Jean from the sun, but now in the late afternoon it's grown hot for a day in mid-May and he wipes his brow, tugging at the collar of his button down shirt.

As much as he likes his summer job, having to wear a button down and a black vest during those scalding weeks in mid July is not something he’s looking forward to. He sighs and slumps a little in the seat and tugs the reigns to steer Buchwald and Genevieve around a corner.

Suddenly, Genevieve lets out a high, startled whinny, Buchwald rapidly picking up his front feet in alarm as well. Jean jerks up in shock and alarm at his large draft horses and adrenaline slides down his back, cold and prickling, at the split-second thought of how much damage those hooves could do to some unsuspecting soul on the other end of them.

Jean tugs hard on the reins, calling to them.

“Whoa, _whoa_!” Beyond them, in the street directly in front of his two horses, Jean spots a guy with wide, terrified eyes, frozen to his spot in the street.

Still spooked and anxious, Jean’s horses back up instinctively, their rear ends bumping against the equipment and jolting the cart backwards the slightest bit. Jean's heart nearly hammers its way out of his ribs.

At Jean’s jerk of the reins and voice called forward, Buchwald seems to understand that Jean has this in control and just needs him to be still. But Genevieve―always the more skiddish of the two, ever since Jean had started working with them two summers ago―is still picking up her back feet one after the other and shaking her head back and forth in nervous fear.

“Hey, hey, _calm_ , girl.” Jean calls to Genevieve, trying his best to be soothing even when his chest feels like it might burst with the sudden shock of it all.

Once Jean glances around to make certain they carriage is currently stopped in a place that won’t block the traffic of other carriages, he analyzes Genevieve's body language and decides that―with Buchwald’s calmness beside her―they aren’t going to bolt away without him.

So Jean jumps down from the carriage and jogs around to stand in front of both his horses, between them and the guy still frozen in the street, and holds his hands up for his horses to see.

“Shhh. It’s just me. It’s just me. You know me.”

Jean steps forward slowly, palm up so Genevieve can track the motion and ascertain he’s not going to jump forward at her, and finally gets his hand close enough for her to smell.

Genevieve’s nostrils flare, eyes still darting, tail swishing with nervousness, but seems to take the familiar smell of Jean’s hand as a bit of a comfort and relaxes a fraction when Jean slides his hand onto her nose, stroking lightly.

“There you are, girl. It's all right. It's all right.” He murmurs to her.

“Oh my God, I-I’m _so_ sorry, I-”

Jean twists his head over his shoulder, hand still sliding on Genevieve’s nose in a calming motion, to see the guy he’d glimpsed in the split second before his horses had panicked.

Now that Jean’s not terrified he’s going to be fired and landed with a lawsuit for his horses kicking some poor tourist’s head off, he gets a chance to properly take the guy in.

He’s about Jean’s age, brown hair so dark it looks nearly black save for the way the sun is catching on the crown of his head. Freckles are spattered across his dark skin and his eyes are the size of dinner saucers. Jean thinks he might be shaking.

“I- I didn’t see them until they were-” The guy breaks off, his eyes flicking around nearly in the same way Genevieve’s had a moment ago, rapidly shifting his weight from foot to foot.

The left side of Jean’s lips just pull into a lopsided grin at the terrified, contrite expression on the boy’s face. jean's chest is still aching with excess adrenaline. He doesn’t reply right away, just turns back to pet Genevieve’s nose once more before taking a few steps back toward the carriage and grabbing a small satchel hanging near the driver’s seat.

“I really am very sorry!” The guy persists, eyes tracking Jean with almost terrified anticipation as Jean returns back in front of the horses and pulls a small treat out of the satchel, as if Jean is going to do something horrific to him once he’s finished dealing with the horses.

It’s almost as if the guy’s voice is getting higher and higher with every additional line he speaks, Jean thinks in amusement as he let’s Genevieve lick a treat out of his palm, coating it with warm saliva.

Finally, he turns around to face the guy, still half-smiling in amusement.

“Hey, I’m just glad you’re okay.” Jean pauses. “You… are okay, aren’t you?”

The guy lets out a wheezed breath.

“What? Yes! Yes, of course! A-are your horses okay? Did I break anything?” The panicked look returns to the guy’s eyes and he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth to chew worriedly, gaze flicking from Jean to the two horses behind him.

“They’re fine now that they’ve calmed down.” Jean assures. “Just spooked ‘em a bit, you being right there around the corner.”

He's never been very good at dealing seriously with potentially serious events. So even as he registers he's about to be kind of a dick to the guy, he can't help himself, knowing poking a bit of fun at someone else's expense will help him feel some level of normal again.

So he plasters a non-shit-eating grin to his face, stepping forward, and offers his right hand―still sticky and wet with horse slobber―to the guy.

The guy blinks vacantly back at him, then glances down at his saliva-coated palm. Then back to Jean’s face.

“You can’t be serious.”

His voice comes out incredulous and quiet with wariness and at the picture he makes, gripping the straps of his backpack with white knuckles, Jean can’t help crack his straight face and throw back his head in a loud laugh. Much better.

Genevieve, behind him, huffs sharply at the unexpected sound.

“N-no! No, I’m not-” Jean gasps through his laughter, wiping his damp palm on his slacks. “S-Sorry, man, sorry, I just- I couldn’t resist, you looked so-” Jean breaks off into another laugh.

The guy’s mouth twists down at the corner, as if unsure whether he should let down his guard enough to be annoyed by Jean’s antics.

Jean makes a concerted effort to stop laughing at that look creeping its way onto the face of the guy in front of him. Because while the little harmless joke had definitely had its desired effect for Jean... its effect on this other guy wasn't quite what he'd expected.

Jean thinks, distantly, that even confused and wary before, the boy had had a certain… light to him, an openness to his features. But this disappointed, half-frown had drawn some of it away.

Jean wants, without quite understanding why, to bring it back.

He takes a deep breath to get his laughter under control, managing it after a moment but unable to wipe the wide grin from his face entirely. He then offers his―now spit-free―hand to the guy.

“Sorry about that. ‘Been told I have a bad sense of humor. Name’s Jean.” Jean jerks his head back to his horses behind him. “And this is Buchwald and Genevieve.”

Jean thinks distantly that it’s almost cute the way Marco releases his death grip on the strap of his backpack to reach out for Jean’s hand in a slow, almost cautious way. His hand is a little slick with sweat, Jean finds, but warm and soft when they shake. He is distracted for a moment, looking down at their joined hands, by the sight of how his paler skin contrasts where it presses against Marco’s.

"My name is Marco. Marco Bodt. Nice to meet you, Jean.” The guy replies slowly, but his voice calmer and warmer than before and Jean takes that as progress. The guy flicks his eyes behind Jean to the horses and warmth seems to flood his eyes. “And nice to meet you two as well. I’m sorry I scared you.”

Marco has the same shy, cautious look that many people get the first time they’re up close to horses as big as the ones Jean has to drive his carriage and it’s… Well, that kinda think is _always_ pretty endearing.

But there’s something about Marco’s boyish features and spattering of freckles, paired with the earnestness of his words that just make it different splashed across his face.

Jean slides the satchel’s strap over his shoulder.

“If you want, you...” Jean starts, trailing off as his attention is drawn to Marco’s eyes focused not on him, but _past_ him―up and to the side, over his shoulder. Marco doesn’t seem to have heard him, doesn’t reply or look back at him, only suddenly grins wide like he’s just heard the punchline of a joke. “What’s so-?”

Jean starts to ask but before he can finish a large, wet snout is suddenly scrunching up his hair. It's accompanied by large, damp tongue is mouthing at the side of his head and hair, along the color-line separating the two sections of his hairstyle. Marco laughs and it’s warm, like the unseasonably pleasant May sun this afternoon.

“Ahrg!” Jean shuffles, almost tripping over his own feet in attempt to lean away from the wet mouth. He pushes at the snout shuffling beside his ear. “Buchwald! Seriously!?”

“I think he wants a treat too.” Marco suggests shyly, still grinning over Jean’s shoulder at Buchwald. Jean squints his eyes at Marco in mock suspicion before turning to look sideways at Buchwald where his front hoof is pawing at the ground.

“I think you two are in cahoots.” Jean mutters and his playfully suspicious expression loosens just a bit when Marco laughs yet again, hiding his mouth behind his hand and _shit, that’s cute_.

“What were you saying?” Marco asks, laughter still in his voice. Jean huffs, brushing his hands down along his black vest to dust it off.

“I _was_ saying that you could pet them if you want, but if you’re gonna be on their sides…”

That cautious excitement fills Marco’s eyes again as he doesn't seem to even register the second half of Jean’s sentence.

“Really?”

Jean has to bite his lip at the expression on Marco’s face. What is this kid, a twelve year old?

He just spreads his hands in a shrug.

“Sure, if you want. And you can give Buchwald a treat while you’re at it. Since _apparently_ -” Jean turns his head to deadpan at Buchwald who snuffles at Jean’s attention. “-it’s either a treat or my _hair_.”

When Jean turns back to him, Marco is chewing his lip, grinding the toe of his right sneaker into the sidewalk. Jean can’t help but snicker a little at that.

“Do you want me to teach you how to do it?”

Marco glances up at Jean sheepishly and nods, bottom lip still caught between his teeth. Jean tries really hard not to think about the it.

“Don’t worry, they’re really nice.” Jean says, beckoning Marco to step forward and closer to his horses as Jean fishes another treat from the satchel. “You just caught them at a bad time.”

“Sorry again about that,” Marco murmurs again softly, staring up at the horses with wide eyes. Jean presses the treat into Marco’s hand―warm and soft―before retracting his hand to wave it in vague dismissal.

“Water under the bridge.” Jean takes a moment to pause, watching Marco expectantly. When Marco doesn’t respond, Jean drops his shoulders and huffs slightly. “What, no reaction at _all_? That joke usually gets at least a _bit_ of a laugh from the tourists.”

“Huh?” Marco turns to face him again, eyes wide in surprise.

“Get it? _Mackinac_ Bridge?” And he’s close enough to Jean now that he can see the understanding almost click into place behind the rich dark brown of Marco’s eyes and they widen even further.

“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” Marco is smiling a bit, look apologetic but also amused. “I get it now."

Jean just shakes his head in mock disappointment.

“No, you had your chance.” He sniffs in mock hurt, tilting his chin up. “The moment has passed.”

“Would you say…” Marco starts uncertainly, head tilted down shyly so when he flicks his eyes up, he’s looking at Jean through his eyelashes, “that ship has sailed?”

Jean stands for a moment, blinking, before barking out a laugh, his whole torso leaning forward with the force.

“Guess you’re not the only one with a bad sense of humor.” Marco laughs a little from beside him, looking pleased with himself and still clutching the treat for Buchwald in his hand.

Jean takes a moment to get his breath back.

“Okay, okay.” Jean huffs to himself, small laughs still breaking free of his attempts to suppress them. “Let’s give Buchwald his treat before he tries to eat someone’s hair again.”

Jean grabs Marco’s empty hand gently, still riding out the last waves of his laughter, and extends it slowly toward Buchwald. Close beside him, he hears Marco let out a soft sound of surprise and feels him stiffen a little beneath Jean's fingers. Through the thin skin at his wrist, Jean suddenly realizes he can feel Marco’s heartbeat thrumming warm and just a bit fast and decides it’s definitely too warm for May.

“Just put one hand up so he can smell you first.” Jean explains softly, grinning still. “Pick a side because horses' eyes are on the sides of their heads instead of the front like us.” Marco relaxes a little but not entirely and Jean doesn’t drop his hand away from Marco’s skin, continuing to guide him forward slowly. “Yep, that’s it. Make sure he can see you when you’re getting close to him.”

The street around them is thinning out and Jean realizes it must be partway through the dinner rush, everyone having made their ways to the restaurants further towards the harbor or boarded ferries home for the evening.

There are a few groups of people still strolling around them―a family of five, a couple holding hands, and the occasionally bike or two whizzing past in the street. But the hustle and bustle of the afternoon prime-time is now gone, replaced by the first tinges in the sky hinting of the colors the sunset will dye the clouds in an hour or two.

Jean doesn't remember it getting so late but he can see it now, focusing deliberately on the slant of the sunlight, how it really is lighting up the street in that angled, golden way sunlight does during those lost hours between true afternoon and true evening.

It glints beautifully off the coats of his horses before him and suddenly, he notices the way it seems to illuminate the place where his hand is curled, gentle and guiding, around Marco’s dark wrist, stretched out before them - like they are reaching, together, for some unknown thing that is just out of reach in the not-quite-yet fading light.

Buchwald eyes Marco’s hand as it stops close to his nose, his nostrils flaring.

“Good.” Jean breathes and doesn’t remember when his voice got soft like this, when it dropped from the loud teasing bravado of a moment ago. Marco lets out a breath.

Buchwald sniffs Marco’s hand curiously, then shakes his neck and head with a soft snort. Marco jumps and Jean can feel it in the muscles of Marco’s arm pressed along his forearm.

“He likes you.” Jean says, still soft, smiling.

“Y-you think?” Marco asks faintly, voice a bit reedy.

“Mhm.” Jean confirms intending to just crossing around to Marco’s other side but ending up sort of behind him, grasping his other wrist as he had the former to lift the hand of Marco’s with the treat upwards. “Now you can give him this.”

Jean realizes that, without meaning to, he’s now nearly pressed to Marco’s side, his breath ruffling the short dark hair where it falls above the other boy’s ear when he speaks.

Marco is still tensing but it isn’t in his forearm where Jean is guiding it slowly towards Buchwald’s snuffling nose. Now Jean notices the tensing in his bicep and in the muscles that stretched along his sides between his ribs and hips―all where Jean is almost leaning into him, close enough to feel the warmth of Marco’s skin through their clothing.

“Good.” Jean breathes, gaze flicking between Buchwald’s curious eyes on Marco’s offered hand and the slope of Marco’s nose―God, there were so many more freckles up this close―a few inches from his own. “Now open your hand.”

Marco does so, fingers unfurling slowly to reveal the treat resting in his palm and Buchwald sniffs once, twice, then leans toward Marco’s open palm with an abrupt lunge of his head.

Marco jumps, his feet doing a shuffled backwards step automatically and it closes the few inches between himself and Jean in doing so. Instinctively, Jean’s free hand shoots out and around Marco, beneath the protrusion of Marco’s backpack, and curls around the other's hip to steady him.

Buchwald, seeming not to noticed the startled shift, slurps the treat from Marco’s palm and begins to lap at his hand.

“Steady.” Jean says, laughing a bit at Buchwald’s enthusiasm. He pretends _that’s_ why the word sounds a little breathless, rather than because of the way his palm is pressed to Marco’s hip bone. Jean finds himself suddenly hyper aware of the ridge of it, curved up above the waistband of Marco cargo shorts, separated by only the thin t-shirt he’s wearing.

Marco lets out a breathless little laugh himself in answer as Buchwald licks at his hand again, as if searching for more treats that may be hiding there.

Jean lets out a breath, unable to help the way his hand squeezes a little at Marco’s hip without thinking before releasing his grip and stepping back. He swallows to clear the… something that suddenly seems to have taken up residence in his throat.

“See?” He asks, returning to Marco’s other side once again to stroke Buchwald’s nose. “That wasn’t so bad was it?”

Marco glances over at him, his damn lip between his teeth again as he smiles and shakes his head and wipes his drool-covered hand on his shorts.

“That was… really nice.” Marco murmurs. “Thank you.”

Jean feels inexplicable heat blooming on his cheeks so he turns away under the guise of adjusting Buchwald’s noseband.

“Sure thing.” Jean replies, staring at the soft fur of Buchwald’s nose and trying to swallowing again.

“I should…” Marco starts, voice once more uncertain. “I’m sorry for keeping you so long.”

Jean turns around to see Marco’s hands back around the straps of his backpack. He just shakes his head.

“Nah, it was the end of the day anyway. I was heading back to put these guys in the stable when we, ah,” Jean breaks into a grin mid-sentence, “ran into you.”

Marco does that stupidly endearing thing where he tilts his head down, then looks up at Jean through his lashes as if shyly asking “ _r_ _eally?_ ” Jean shoves his hands in his pockets, energy seeming to creep into his limbs, making him suddenly fidgety.

“Actually, are you on your way anywhere?” Jean asks, trying extremely hard to repress the urge to grind the toe of his shoe into the concrete like Marco had before. “I could give you a ride if you need one.”

Marco’s already shaking his head before Jean’s finished.

“No, no, I couldn’t impose on you like that. In fact I…” He trails off, looking to the side as if suddenly remembering something. His dark brows furrow slightly and he seems to be deliberating on something if the **―** _really? Again?―_ lip chewing is any indication.

“In fact you what?” Jean prompts.

“Ah…” Marco just lets out a resigned exhale and shakes his head.

When he lifts his face to Jean again, a small, polite smile is spread across his features and Jean decides he doesn’t like it one bit. It’s not easy and open like before, he notes, not honest and warm like looking down onto beaches or out across the Straits from up high on the top of the Island.

That’s what Marco’s smile had been like, he concludes. Like looking out across the waters from high up seeing the entirety of the Island and the stretching waters of the Lakes spread out before you with the sun and the wind combing over your skin. Like what you could see from there was everything there was in the entire world…

“Nothing. Thank you again for letting me pet your horses.” Marco says finally, soft and resigned.

No, Jean decides, this simply will not do.

Jean shoots Marco a deadpan “ _s_ _eriously?_ ” stare. It seems to take Marco off guard because his eyes go wide again like they had earlier when Jean had first dashed around to calm Genevieve. It’s so endearing and _not_ his fake, polite smile that Jean can’t seem to hold his stern stare when he realizes that the expression is Marco’s “ _uh-oh I might be in trouble_ ” face.

Jean resolutely shoves the swirling concepts of _cute-_ _adorable-_ _kiss-_ out of his head before they form a coherent string of thought, for which he is grateful.

“Get in, Marco.” Jean says with finality.

“Really, I-” Marco starts to say again, but Jean leans over and wraps his hand around Marco’s wrist―just like before―where it’s folded up, hand clutching his backpack’s strap. He tugs Marco’s grip off the damn thing and drags a sputtering Marco behind him and around the carriage until they’re alongside the driver’s seat.

“Get in.” Jean repeats, jerking his head toward the carriage.

“I, uh…” Marco chews his lips and Jean watches, confused and fascinated at once as Marco turns a little, eyes darting back down the path toward the docks where all the ferries come in and gives a small yet bright  smile. Jean wonders what he’s remembering that's making Marco look like that and tries not to let his mind continue down that path.

Marco finally lets out resigned exhale and climbs up past Jean onto the large bench of a seat from which Jean drives the carriage.

“You ever ridden in one of these before?” Jean asks when he’s settled beside Marco, taking up the reins and clicking his tongue to urge Buchwald and Genevieve forward. The carriage jerks and rattles a bit as the horses start moving.

Marco shakes his head beside Jean with a small, “Mm-mm.”

“Your first. What an honor.” Jean muses before asking “So, where we headed?”

“Oh, hold on!” Marco exclaims, arching his back and Jean almost careens into a fence as Marco thrusts his hips up and out before realizing Marco’s just trying to fish something out of his back pocket. “Uhm- uh, just a sec.”

The corner of Jean’s mouth pulls up. Marco’s face grows increasingly distressed as he almost flips himself out of the carriage rummaging through every pocket in his shorts and backpack alike.

“It’s-” Marco starts, voice small as he turns to Jean with a stricken expression. “It's not here.”

“What’s not here?” Jean raises one eyebrow, amused. Marco’s hands ball into anxious fists on his thighs in front of him.

“I’m staying with my aunt and cousin here for the summer,” Marco explains and something in Jean’s chest surges at the words “ _for the summer_ ” but he pushes it away just as quickly when Marco continues, “and my aunt gave me an address and map so I could find her place after I got off the ferry because I _insisted_ I didn’t need to be picked up-” He cuts himself off, closing his eyes and groaning.

“And you lost it.” Jean deduces.

“So stupid.” Marco whispers softly to himself. “Way to go, Marco.”

Marco shifts his weight so his forearms are pressed to his thighs, leaning over himself with his head hanging between his shoulders.

“Hey, man, this kinda thing happens all the time.” Jean says in a tone he hopes is reassuring. He takes one hand briefly off the reins to pat Marco’s back twice in condolence.

“Yeah, well...” Marco sighs, dejected.

“You don’t remember the road or anything?” Jean inquires.

After three summers of driving carriages on this island, Jean does have a pretty extensive knowledge of where things are. And helping this guy―Marco, whose smile feels like the prematurely warm May sun and the ghost of whose hip Jean can still feel pressed into his palm―seems like one of the best ways to use it.

Marco shakes his head without looking up, then groans, placing his face in his hands.

“I scare your horses and you’re still nice enough to give me a ride and then I- I’m so sorry, I’m being such a bother to you.” Jean’s about to pipe up and contradict him on that―that meeting Marco and teaching him to pet his horses has been, for reasons he has yet to pick apart, the best thing that’s happened to him so far this summer―when Marco groans inwardly again. “Aunt Liz is never gonna let me hear the end of this.”

Jean stills.

“Aunt Liz?” he asks softly, pulling on the reins to ease Buchwald and Genevieve into stopping. Marco turns his head to look at Jean, face still forlorn.

“Huh?”

“Marco, what’s your aunt’s full name?”

Marco’s eyebrows pull together in confusion.

“Elizabeth Andrews.” He says, the furrow of his brow deepening at the grin that stretches across Jean’s face at that. “Why?”

“Does she, by any chance, happen to live with a one _Ymir_ Andrews? Tall, lots of freckles?” Jean pauses. “Wouldn’t wanna meet her in a dark alley at night?”

Marco nods slowly and pulls himself upright, despair forgotten temporarily in the face of his confusion.

“Yeah. Yeah, Ymir’s my cousin. Why?” He repeats.

Jean wonders how he didn’t see it before with the dark skin and the freckles. He thinks it might have been the fact that in every interaction he’s had with Ymir, the girl has always been scowling and sarcastic where Marco’s expressions have been almost entirely friendly and bright.

Jean throws a celebratory arm around Marco’s shoulders, who jolts with surprise at the contact.

“Don’t worry, man.” Jean says as he squeezes once around the curve of Marco’s shoulder before he retracts his arm just as quickly. He flashes Marco a knowing smirk and―because it's a beautiful warm day and the summer's just started―he chances a wink as he regains his grip on the reins. “I’ll give you a lift home.”

Marco just blinks owlishly back at him as Jean clicks his tongue the carriage jerks, Buchwald and Genevieve starting forward once again.

 

 

 

 

“You really didn’t have to walk me to the door.” Marco turns back to Jean from rapping on the door. Jean has his hands in his pockets, simply shrugging. Marco doesn't know why the situation is giving him that fluttery hot feeling that precedes a blush.

“Just wanna make sure I don’t dump you off at the wrong place and get you stranded again.”

“How considerate of you.” Marco tries for sarcasm but inward kicks himself at the warmth that seeps through into his words. Having tied up the horses and empty carriage at the end of the lane, Jean had hopped out and followed after Marco up onto the porch of the small house painted in a beautiful pastel blue the color of the sky on bright, cloudless days. Around them the leaves are still on the trees, far enough in from the lake to not catch the wind.

“Yeah, I’m a real stand-up guy.” Jean grins, cocky and teasing and Marco rolls his eyes, turning back to face the door. He doesn’t exactly understand how that arrogant confidence could be endearing on someone and yet, here was this guy.

Regardless of finding Jean a bit cocky and quick to poke fun at Marco as well as grin at him with a kind of lopsided smirk of a smile, Marco is glad to have met someone his own age so soon after arriving. Someone that, judging by the fact that he was working, would be here for the duration of the summer like Marco.

Because aside from those things, Jean had been kind and laughed off Marco’s flustered apologies and let him pet his horses and  offered him a ride to his aunt's and had given Marco a glimpse of something softer and warmer beneath his brasher first impression.

And Marco is trying _very_ hard to push away the memory of Jean’s large palm curving over his hipbone to steady him just when the door swings open before them.

The girl standing before Marco is tall with dark skin and darker hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Marco can’t help noting how much Ymir had grown since he’d last saw his cousin―she now towers over him, looking down at him with appraising eyes before flicking to Jean with only the barest hint of acknowledging nod, before popping her gum between her teeth.

“Hey, Ma! Marco finally made it!” Ymir calls back with a turn of her head, leaning with a forearm braced above her head against the door frame. Her bored expression curves into a small, fond smile. “Didn’t fall off the side of the ferry, after all. I kept telling Mom you’d probably drowned.”

“Thanks for that,” Marco replies, huffing a little and he can hear the clattering of footsteps inside the house. Ymir’s eyes dart over to Jean again. She opens her mouth as if to say something else, but before she can another woman appears behind Ymir, shoving her arm past the girl splayed out in the doorway.

“Ymir, _wadosh_ ( _no good blood-clot_ (affectionate)), out of the way!” Ymir just rolls her eyes and steps through the doorway out onto the porch so Marco’s Aunt Liz can lunge through the doorway herself and embrace him.

Marco lets out a surprised sound, his vision suddenly blocked by a cloud of dark hair. He laughs, overcoming the shock and wrapping his arms around her tightly in return. She smells like pine trees and the gardenia perfume she's always been so fond of and Marco lets out a breath at the familiar scent.

“Hello to you too, Aunt Liz,” Marco huffs a laugh against her shoulder and hair. Aunt Liz pushes him back, hands holding him at his shoulders, her face falling into an expression of exaggerated disappointment.

“ _Zhaaganaashiimowin?_ ( _English?_ )” Aunt Liz asks, lowering her hands from Marco's shoulders to her hips. “ _Ayaa, ni_ _ndagaawaadaan daa-anishinaabemoyan._  ( _Ah, I_ _wish you would speak Ojibwe_ ).”

Marco blinks at her and chuckles, before replying―albeit a bit haltingly as he tries to stumbles over a few of the pre-verbs

“ _Gindayaasiin akawe anishinaabe gii-anish-_  ah, _gii-anishinaabemod noongom._ ( _You aren’t the first person to speak Ojibwe today._ )”

Out of the corner of his eye, Marco notices Jean’s brows pulling further and further together in confusion at the sound of the language.

“ _Geget ina?_ ( _Is that right?_ )” His Aunt asks, dark eyebrows shooting up in excitement. But Marco turns to Jean, amused by his expression and urged by his need to be inclusive and polite.

“Sorry, we should probably speak in English.” Marco laughs.

“I _was_ gonna ask,” Ymir drawls jerking her head towards Jean standing a bit awkwardly behind Marco’s left shoulder, “how you know Jean.”

“Oh! Right, I’m sorry. Aunt Liz, this is Jean.” Marco gestures. “He was kind enough to give me a ride up here. Jean, this is my Aunt Liz and- ah, right, I guess you already know Ymir.”

“More or less.” Ymir confirms, shrugging.

“Lovely to meet you, Jean.” Aunt Liz says, smiling brightly as she extends her hand glittering with an assortment of rings to Jean who shakes it firmly. “You know, I actually might have seen you around the island, now that I think of it.”

Jean nods genially, retracting his hand.

“Small place, it’s bound to happen.”

Aunt Liz nods, still smiling.

“Well, thank you for giving Marco a lift.” She turns to look at Marco, offering her own particular type of smile Marco remembers her giving during family get-togethers growing up. It was an expression that mean she was implying something, but what that was, Marco had never been able to tell. “Glad you’re making friends already, Marco.”

“Yeah.” Ymir scoffs, but it’s amused and amiable. “Since I’m terrible company.”

Jean snorts, leaning forward toward Marco’s ear.

“You’re telling me.” He says quietly, but obviously not outright _trying_ to keep his voice from the other two.

“I heard that, asshole.” Ymir glares.

“Ymir, language.” Aunt Liz scolds. She turns once again to Marco and throws her arms around him a second time. “Oh, it’s so good to see you, _ininiins_ ( _little man_ ).”

“I, ah-” Jean starts awkwardly after a moment when Aunt Liz releases Marco from the second hug, “I should be headed back.” Marco turns away from Aunt Liz's embrace to  see him, hands still in his pockets and nods.

“Oh, right. Well, thanks again for everything today.” Marco tells him sincerely, tilting his head toward the other boy. “I hope I see more of you this summer.”

And for a moment there’s something there on Jean’s face as he stands awkwardly on his aunt’s front porch that Marco can’t exactly decipher. It’s warm and fond like for a moment his eyes are catching more of the dying light than they did otherwise and Marco feels inextricably breathless.

Jean nods.

“Yeah, for sure. I, ah- I hope I'll see you around, Marco.” He edges down off the porch to walk back up the lane to his tied horses. But after a few steps toward the road, he twists back to wave and call. “It was nice to meet you, Miss Andrews!”

Aunt Liz laughs and it fills Marco with warm childhood memories of being crowded around dining room tables and endless card games.

“Oh dear, just call me Liz!” She calls back. Jean shoots off a two finger salute at her and Marco feels himself grin at the sigh, of Jean's crooked grin and light blond hair catching the light of the fading afternoon. And Marco sees Jean's eyes slide to him once again - a short, barely noticeable beat, before he turns back around completely.

Marco watches him stride back toward his horses, watches the way his broad shoulders move beneath the button down and black vest of his uniform.

“He seems like a nice young man.” Aunt Liz comments, dropping her hand from waving to Jean beside Marco and turning to Ymir, tossing her arm casually around the girl's shoulders. “Why haven’t you ever mentioned him before?”

Ymir just shrugs and smiles at Marco. Ymir finally surpassed Aunt Liz in height and so she looks lopsided, trying to hook her arm around her daughter's shoulders. It's funny and familiar and Marco is so glad to be back around them.

“Dunno.”

Aunt Liz rolls her eyes and blows a strand of hair out of her face, shooting Marco a conspiratorial yet exasperated look.

“Well, anyway, we’re _so_ glad you're here, Marco. Come on in, I’ll show you your room.” She beckons him. “Are you hungry? I have some dinner almost ready.”

Marco smiles.

“Yeah, that’d be great. ‘m starving actually.”

Marco follows his aunt and cousin through the doorway with only the barest glance back toward the winding lane and it hits Marco that he really is extraordinarily happy he'd decided to come here this summer.

 

 

 

 

Jean climbs back into the driver’s seat of the carriage distractedly, barely paying attention as he clicks at Buchwald and Genevieve. He steers them in a veering arc in the middle of the street until they’re facing back down the slope of the island toward the stables. As they begin the trip back, Jean finds his mind far from the carriage rattling beneath him or the trees passing on the roadside.

Marco Bodt, huh? Tall and dark with freckles Jean can only assume will become more visible as the summer goes on, armed with a smile like the summer's sun and an earnest expression like the view from the top of everything.

Jean always has a good time during summers on the island.

He loves working with his horses, likes showing off to the tourists he drives around, impressing them with facts an―okay, he’ll admit―making up a bullshit story or two here just cause the tourist will believe most anything. He likes the freedom of living away from his mom and he likes being away from cars and he likes falling asleep to the soft roar of the water in the distance.

He has friends on the island, sure. The guys on the bike racing team, for sure. And other people his age that work for the same place driving carriages. And people he’s met at bars. But there’s fewer of them this year than ever before.

And it strikes Jean, not for the first time, that it’s the nature of summer life here on the island for anything built to be... temporary.

The cast of summer employees and occasional longer-term visitors is one that is constantly rotating. And even if the same people return to work the next tourist season, Jean knows from experience how much someone can change between summers. It’s a precarious kind of life he leads here on the island for three months of his year―one make-shift from year to year and impermanent.

It’s this thought that slides down to settle low in Jean’s gut, fluttering anxiously along with the excitement of another summer beginning once again. He leans back in the seat, relaxing as dusk falls and he steers Buchwald and Genevieve back toward the stables.

But Jean jerks upright once more―momentarily flooded with deja vu at the motion―when one of the recently illuminated street lamps lining the road catches, glinting on something metal and reflective in the seat beside him.

He chances a glance over to find it’s the face of a small watch gleaming in the glow of the streetlight as they pass beneath it. Jean grabs it, glancing around to make sure he’s not in immediate danger of crashing into anything or anyone, before examining the watch more closely. It’s a wind up watch, with delicate golden hands resting on the face beneath the glass. The main piece is set into sturdy, rich brown leather. Despite the overall humble design, it’s kind of beautiful in its unassuming simplicity, Jean thinks.

He pockets the watch and grasps the reins again with both hands, eyes settling back on the road ahead. He already knows who it belongs to. No one besides himself had sat in the driver’s seat today. No one, of course, except Marco Bodt.

Jean sighs and fights the stupid, unprompted smile that fights to break over his face.

“Guess I got a watch to return tomorrow, huh, guys?” Jean asks Buchwald and Genevieve as he slumps back into the seat once more. Neither of them respond, except Buchwald who only gives a small flick of his tail. Jean snorts fondly before letting out a breath. He takes the slight chill of the falling night and the distant sounds of waves crashing on the shore.

After pulling in to unhook the carriage, Jean takes a moment to tug the watch from his pocket and hold it in his hand, examining it for a moment.

He runs his thumb over the face and watches the minuscule second hand tick―the only evidence of its marking the passing of time at all. In stillness here, as opposed to the rattling of his carriage, he can feel it ticking against his palm.  The watch feels as if it were the tiny heartbeat of some small, newborn thing fluttering against his skin, the passing seconds themselves testament to some continued determination to beat and breathe and live.

Jean closes his eyes and curls his fingers around the watch, lets out a breath before returning it to his pocket.

Jean always has a good time during summers on the island.

But for some reason he’s got a feeling―something like fluttering in his stomach and heat against his palm and the beats of a small, fragile heart against his skin―that this summer is going to be something different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated!  
>   
> [fanfic/podfic blog](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/) | [personal](http://xiexiecaptain.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/xiexiecaptain)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated!  
>   
> [fanfic/podfic blog](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/) | [personal](http://xiexiecaptain.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/xiexiecaptain)


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